"Heard you the first time. You're just not being super clear about the nature of that interest, and I am getting a little antsy. Like, is this 'wear my skin as a coat' interest or 'call the cops' interest or 'you just really want to bang me' interest or (d) none of the above, kind of thing."

"--you're right, I apologize, I should know better than to underestimate you. Your skin is much prettier as not a coat, and I would very much prefer that you didn't call the cops, so while you are lovely I think I'm going to have to put myself into slot D. Professional interest, I suppose, of a sort. I try to look out for people like us."

"'Oh thank god'? 'That's exactly what an undercover officer would say'? 'I don't know what you're talking about just stay away from me'? 'What do you want'? 'Wait, are you that one terrorist'? 'Do you know what happened to my family, are they alive?' Really, just about anything but 'oh, cute.'"

A squashy couch with a faded cream-and-gold floral pattern, piled with mismatched pillows and blankets whose disparate patterns and colours somehow come together into a unified whole. Round windows in round walls, and round tables and round stools and round chairs. It's not a very tidy space, but it looks like - like it was designed to accomodate the amount of mess it has; there are things piled on tables but still some space free, a few boxes shoved under a desk but without obstructing the associated chair. All of the furniture looks like it was picked up at yard sales, but put together with a discerning eye. It is comfortable and cozy and the kind of haphazard you can only get away with when you're such an artistic genius that even your careless piles of junk have good visual balance.